I don’t remember my dad saying my name.

It’s been 15 years since my dad died. He never said my name to me.

It’s been over 15 years since my dad died. I’ve now lived longer without my dad than with. I realized last night after watching Somewhere Between, a heart-wrenching documentary about four American Chinese adoptee teens (seriously, the best and most impactful $2.99 Amazon rental you’ll ever watch), that I don’t remember my dad saying my name, either to me or to other people. My dad died when I was 15. Like seemingly many dads among my generation of Taiwanese Americans, he was an electrical engineer. He had a Ph.D. He played tennis. He watched wrestling on TV. He hardly ever spoke to me, even when I was playing with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on the carpet next to his desk while he silently read the Chinese newspaper.

One day when I was in elementary school, I saw a classified ad in the newspaper for a computer. I called the seller. My dad deftly took the phone out of my hands and apologized to the seller, explaining that I was a kid, saying, “That was my boy.” This is the only memory I have of my dad talking about me to someone else. I have zero memories of being referred to as “my son.” I never overheard my dad tell a friend or family member, “Draven plays the trumpet,” or, “My son plays soccer.”

Before he died my freshman year of high school, I was getting ready to go to my first high school spring dance. It was the Sweethearts Dance the week of Valentine’s Day. As I fidgeted in my suit, waiting for my date to arrive, my dad said, “You look handsome.” It’s one of two times he ever complimented me. I just wish, more than anything, that he had said my name, even once. I wish he had said, “Draven, I see you. I love you, Draven. I’m proud of you, Draven. Draven, you’re my son, and I love you.” I wish. I really do.

(Cross-posted from http://loudlysilent.com/2014/02/11/i-dont-remember-my-dad-saying-my-name/)